


Quid pro quo

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack Pairing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink meme on LiveJournal, prompt was Roose/Tywin, <i>quid pro quo</i></p><p>Boltwin, take II</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid pro quo

“It is arranged.” Tywin Lannister stood in front of the fire, his back to his companion, watching the flames devour the parchment that had been cast into them moments before. Alliances, treaties, distasteful to him, but necessary in order to ensure his victory. Tommen’s victory. And now, consigned to the flames. “For your service, Lord Paramount in the North. Take care that you keep it.”

“I intend to,” Roose Bolton replied, expressionless. “And my son?”

“Legitimized,” Tywin returned, his voice cold. If Bolton was distasteful, his bastard was worse. “By royal decree.” He slid the parchment across the desk. Bolton eyed it as if it were his dinner, gone cold. “Of course, you will need to keep him in check. I hear tales, unpleasant happenings.”

The other man held up a hand. “I am well aware, my lord. I assure you, he will learn discretion. If that fails,” and here he sighed, “I am newly wed. My wife is young, fertile, and quite willing.”

 _In bed with the Freys_ , thought Tywin disdainfully. They had their uses, Walder and his brood, as did this odd lord with his hushed voice and strange habits, but they were not the sort that he liked to consort with above stairs. Small men, small lords, upstarts. He supposed that Bolton had proved himself worthy, staining his hands with the blood of his king, covering his actions with a mind-numbing subtlety and a neat lack of remorse that frankly unnerved Tywin. 

“See that he does,” Tywin said, and his face was hard. He had tried lordly courtesies with this man, and they had had no effect. Roose Bolton was not easily impressed. He was impassive, at times slightly mocking, but never going far enough to provoke. It was an irritation. “The King has no use for mad dogs and fools.” 

Bolton bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. “Is that so, my lord?” His voice was a hair above a whisper, a parody of courtesy. “The Riverlands will be glad to hear of it. And of course, Duskendale.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Then again, your Mountain is far better fit for service than my bastard. A miller’s son and an unwanted get is far from a knight, after all.”

Tywin resisted the urge to react, refusing to allow Bolton the upper hand. _I made him_ , he thought, unfurling the parchment, _and I will unmake him just as neatly when he outlives his usefulness._ He said nothing for a time, watching Bolton, his eyes made red by the flickering of the fire. Neither broke their gaze for what seemed like hours, and Tywin began to feel a twinge in his temples, a result of the closeness of the room, the heat, the smoke from the green wood, the scent of the spiced wine that Bolton had before him. He did not touch it; he merely toyed with the goblet, warming his hands, clasping it. 

“Will that be all, my lord?” Bolton said at last, his voice slightly sardonic. “Unless you have further use of me?” 

Tywin thought on that, desiring to see the last of his companion, but dearly wishing that there was something that he could do that would unman him, break his composure. He was unused to such blasé reactions. And in the back of his mind, he remembered what soldiers on the march did, desperate men who had long since forgotten the touch of a woman, whether saintly wife or tavern wench. And he wondered if such a proposition might have the desired effect, if it would wipe the self-satisfied look off of Bolton’s pale face. And he pictured him bent over the desk as Tywin took him, tore him to pieces, shame and humiliation writ large on his usually quiet features, his voice perhaps raised with pain, even with pleasure, begging his lord to stop, to continue. 

But he was not willing to dirty his hands in that way. And the thought of how that cold flesh would feel pressed against his body made his skin crawl. 

_Leave him to his little Frey wife_ , Tywin thought, frowning. _He’s served his purpose well; I wash my hands of him. And his bastard_.

“I require nothing further, Lord Bolton,” he said, politely but with a sense of finality. “You may go.”

Bolton rose, but not before bending to press Tywin’s hand, brushing his lips against the signet ring on his finger, old gold, Lannisport forged. Tywin forced himself not to draw back. “I am but your servant,” he said, fingers lingering a shade too long, nails scratching against Tywin’s palm as he released his grip, leaving as silently as he came. 

He still felt the press of those lips and the grip of that hand hours later, and was troubled.


End file.
